


Messy

by clusband



Series: Rare Pairs [4]
Category: Hiveswap
Genre: (kind of?? this is a weird one), Character Study, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 06:29:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20253682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clusband/pseuds/clusband
Summary: As you go for the stretch, you notice you got somebody else with you. Warmish hands press at your tits in the most impersonal fucking snuggle you’ve ever felt. Manicured nails press into your skin- the sharp tips saying ‘keep the fuck away’ but the smooth edges saying ‘I’m an uptight bitch.’ You ain’t even gotta catch a gander- no doubt in your mind, that’s your mans.





	Messy

**Author's Note:**

> This is a continuation of a ficlet I wrote in my rare pair challenges! If it looks a little familiar, that's why. I just had some feelings about these two that I wanted to try to say!

The moons ain’t even all the way up before your brain starts with the fuzzing, the buzzing, the _“Marvus, get the fuck up and start hustling.”_ Contrary to popular belief, you’re an early riser. With the schedule you keep, sleeping in late gets you sweating like a sinner with the wicked wigglies in your guts. Call that shit anxiety or sumn.

As you go for the stretch, you notice you got somebody else with you. Warmish hands press at your tits in the most impersonal fucking snuggle you’ve ever felt. Manicured nails press into your skin- the sharp tips saying ‘keep the fuck away’ but the smooth edges saying ‘I’m an uptight bitch.’ You ain’t even gotta catch a gander- no doubt in your mind, that’s your mans. You nuzzle your nose right into his hair and take a good lungful- smells like dank cave covered up by your own brand of dry shampoo. He says something, a sound somewhere between a grouch, a rouse, and a word. You make the noise back at him, mocking.

He wakes up reluctantly. You wait on him with all of the patience of a stage- alert and prepared for direction. As his subconscious catches up to the world, his hands come alive. He searches for you, sliding his hands up your chest, around your neck, then into your hair, pulling you towards him. He presses his lips to your neck, and you hum at him in sleepy contentment, leaning back with his weight in your arms. Then he bites you.

Doesn’t hurt much, it hardly even startles you. Something sad and lonely twisted in you revels in this intimacy, the closeness that comes from the flow of your blood on his tongue, in his mouth. _Hellz yeah my man let’s get this rhythm fucking flowing._

“C’mon on now boo knock that shizz off we both know you ain’t no rainbow drinker, got damn,” you finally open your eyes, gently pushing him off of you so that you can press him back into the coon.

“And this certainly isn’t purple drank,” he pulls you back into him to mouth into your neck, drawing your blood into his mouth once and yet again. You wonder if maybe he wants to role play a lil. You can feel the slick, cold thrill of his lips moving your blood around the skin of your neck. Feels nasty. Feels dirty. “But here you are, letting me bite you, and here I am, enjoying it.”

Well. Can’t argue with that logic seeing as it ain’t no logic at all. You kiss him instead. His lips are hard against yours as he spins his roulette wheel, flushed or pitch tonight? You open him up, not really giving a shit for that particular game. You swipe your tongue against his, catching a taste. Your blood is sweet and metallic in his mouth, his teeth smoothed and polished like marble. You pinch his face between your fingers, forcing his mouth open, as you bite on his bottom lip. Then you just kinda... look at him. You stroke his jaw absently with your thumb as you release him from your grip and he pouts at you, simultaneously wanting you, all of you, and also a little stuck in his feelings and blaming you for it. Your man’s such a little bitch about it, every fucking time. 

His eyes are half closed already, but his expression is impatient. His face is starting to flush jade- he’s so easy. You move your knee around lazily in the sopor... Jack-fucking-pot. As you slide your thigh between his legs, you can feel the beginnings of his bulge, the tip insistent against your skin. You press, giving him pressure, pressure to the bottom of his bulge and pressure to the lips of his nook, and the rest slides out with a little hiss from him. He arches his back, pressing his belly to yours.

“Learn that in a porno buddy?” you smile mockingly down at him.

His lips against yours are a little softer this time, but not as soft as they could be. Looks like his roulette wheel’s a fucking dud. You’re vibing anyway.

“Shut the fuck up,” he finally responds, pulling you down with him, deeper into the sopor. Shutting the fuck up is not something you’re good at. But you try, kissing him lightly on his cheek bone (vain ass bitch- he starts smirking this knowing smirk at you) and letting his bulge paint little pictures into your hip and onto your thigh.

His hand dips into the slime, scratching his claws over your belly and giving you the fucking shivers. His fingers are posed and shaped all elegantly, like a dancer waiting for some one to up and take the fucking picture already. 

You wonder if he gets it, too. What it’s like to feel perceived at all times, watched and seen from all angles, even when there ain’t nobody around. Always fucking posing. You bring your hand around his wrist, letting him drop the act, and together, you find your pleasure nub.

You lean back, letting him sit in your lap, and sigh into his neck- you kinda forgot all about kissing him anyway. It’s too damn early for thoughts like that. His nails are too sharp to finger you, but his fingers are strong and clever and he’s got you good right now. He lets his bulge slide up against yours as the sound of his breathing joins yours. When you come, he gives you this dumb little _I won _face and you understand why he wants you to hate him so bad.

Sopor, as it turns out, makes for pretty okay lube. You grab him by the hips, holding him steady as you decide how you want him.

“What’s wrong,” he asks. He’s no good at masking his panic, his words to fast and his breath too... breathy. Someone didn’t go to clown school.

You don’t respond because he wasn’t really asking a question anyway. Instead, you shove your head under his chin, kissing him at the hollow of his neck. You can feel his throat bobbing as he swallows nervously, and your nook pulses in time with it. Alright, that’s maybe kinda weird that you found that sexy but you’re feeling it. It’s all good.

He arches his back again to look down at you as you tense your abs and grind his nook into them. Damn, they call that shit washboard for a reason, right? But he scoffs at you, clearly understanding what you’re doing, and clearly unimpressed. Aw, but it looked so good though. You like having a little of his color on your skin.

“Thought you liked pretty boys,” you say into his neck, dragging your teeth down the column of his throat.

“Didn’t realize-” he stops on a sharp intake of breath as your teeth catch in his collar bone. “Didn’t realize narcissism came with the territory.”

“Bro you deadass? What the fuck you think it’s like to fuck wit you though?” you feel his body relax a little itty bitty as he smiles some kinda genuine sort of smile. You smile a wicked smile back, though he can’t see you. “Ain’t got no fucking self awareness, I swear.”

You press him against your bulge, no preamble. He gives as good as he gets, wiggling his hips and pressing his pleasure nub right into you. But he ain’t warmed up yet, his nook too tight and not fucking giving way.

“Ooh feels tight up in here,” you tease him, bringing your fingers down to search for his pleasure nub. “How I’m gonna get in there?” He blushes, looking away as you spread his lips a little. He’s shy, not willing to feel vulnerable quite yet. You get it; it’s still early.

“I’m gonna have to use my fingers to find a way,” you sing-song at him, bringing your face up under his ear before nipping him. That gets his attention.

He still ain’t talking too much to you, not with words. His eyes have closed, his mouth agape as his thighs spread for you. This is not exactly helping you ‘shut the fuck up’ or anything. You can’t help it- you love the sound of your own voice. And you know he does, too.

You’re finally able to slide two fingers up in him. 

“Feels good,” he kinda sorta sighs to you. You get it- he’s lost in his own sauce. You examine it on your hand, slick around your fingers. Not to be casteist or anything, but you kinda wish he weren’t green. You want to watch him dirty up your sopor. You want to make more of a mess. You think of your blood on your neck, tugging at your skin as some of it dries, and a possessive shiver runs through you.

In a fit of inspiration, you flip your positions. You hover over him, your hand still working in his nook, and he looks up at you. He pushes his hand through your cascade of hair- let there be fucking light- his expression carefully, meticulously blank.

“You were prettier when I was looking down at you,” he eventually smirks. He startles some when your blood finally drips off your neck and down on to him, a little splatter of purple front and fucking center. You watch it trail its way down between his pecs before just kinda chilling in the valley between them. A bloodthirsty tug spirals in your gut at the sight, combining with the harsh pull of possessive horniness that you get just seeing your color on him. 

You ignore him- you know you’re pretty at all angles anyway- and replace your fingers with your bulge. He sort of tenses up, feeling some type of way about how casual you’re being about all of this. So you go slow, pushing in gently, then stopping to pull out when he seems like he ain’t feeling the wicked fucking rhythm with you. 

And, slowly, you do find your rhythm. He’s grabbing you steady by your arms now, looking up at you like you have some kinda answers- it’s quiet, intimate. You’re kind of like... this is a lot, ain’t it? With no words between you? You search through every corner of your cerebral creases and come up with nothing.

You kinda wish _he_ would say something now- you’ve been doing all the heavy lifting here for fuck’s sake! But all he’s got is his breath in your ear. His hands at your biceps. And it’s hard to hide from you, with his emotions so strong and strange to him, and your head so close to his.

You press your cheek to his as his loneliness echos deep and cavernous in your empty fucking chest. You pull him tight, stuttering a bit in your movement. 

You know he’s like you, he’s not really allowed to put a name to the shit you’re doing with each other. Those feelings you’re both feeling. You can’t bite him, and you can’t mark him in a way that matters, not really, so you hold him tight, pressing every line of your muscle against his, hoping you make a dent.

Messiahs know it gets lonely at the top.


End file.
